


The Vulnerability Sonata

by Sealie



Series: 'Uhane [6]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, M/M, Musical References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealie/pseuds/Sealie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentinel AU fusion, and further along the line of The First Thirty Minutes, Hourglass Time, X Time, Learning Music by Reading, and This is the Way the Waves Break ['Uhane series]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vulnerability Sonata

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Slash; PG;  
> Warning: none spring to mind. Emotive subject, perhaps? 
> 
> Comments:  
> 1) British English spelling.  
> 2) Sentinel AU fusion, and further along the line of The First Thirty Minutes, Hourglass Time, X Time, Learning Music by Reading, and This is the Way the Waves Break. I didn’t intend to write any more, but _hey_ , it sometimes just happens.  
> Spoilers: none.  
> Beta: the incomparable Springwoof.
> 
> For Springwoof. Happy Birthday, Babe, you’re a rock.

**The Vulnerability Sonata**   
By Sealie 

 

Steve stopped dead. Danny continued a few marching steps, momentum carrying him forward across beige and cream patterned paving stones. 

“Babe?” Danny cocked his head to the side, matching Steve’s head-tilted pose. 

“You hear that?” Steve murmured. His mouth dropped slightly open to hear better. 

“Hear what?” Danny asked, because really, there was a hundred million different contrasting and divergent sounds for a Sentinel to wend his way through. 

Steve pivoted on one heel, scanning the wide boulevard before them. Unerringly, Steve’s poor, mundane (Danny grinned inwardly) sight focused across to the pier that protected the boulevard from the Pacific Ocean. A hundred and one people --all colours, shapes and sizes -- going about their assorted businesses on a fine Hawaiian early morning, meandered back and forth. 

Steve angled off, striding as if on a parade ground. 

“Government Building?” Danny pointed at the white edifice that was supposed to be their destination. “Oh, damn.” 

He scampered after his guide. Nothing pinged his senses; no alarums hinting of anything other than a typical human morning. Steve was concentrating, that little dip evident between his eyebrows, as he strode forth. 

However, Danny filtered through the miasma of impinging organic information. The wind was moving westerly, but with only a breath of sea air to delight rather than frustrate. Danny would never tell anyone, except maybe Steve (when they were both in their seventies sitting on their deck chairs), that he kind of liked some parts of the sea. The main hubbub of noise was a conglomeration of the simple sounds of people’s biology, the brush of their clothes, and the murmur of their voices. The sounds of vehicles: their discordant clanking and scent of fuels, was far away from the boulevard. 

As the mosaic of paving stones gave way to the concrete bulwark of the pier, Steve stopped. Danny finally figured out what had caught Steve’s interest. 

A girl who was playing a flute. 

Some sort of classical shit. 

“Huh?” Danny stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. Was this something guidey? 

The girl was young, early twenties, white, far too pale to be a local, sandy-reddish brown hair, and skinny with youth rather than a dedication to exercise. Her summer dress, Danny zoomed his gaze closely on the seams, was new, and good quality. Mentally, Danny reviewed their cases for suspects and victims. 

Steve elbowed him. 

“What?” Danny snapped. 

“Listen!” Steve grated.

“To what?” Danny asked automatically. 

Steve widened his eyes, appalled, and jerked his thumb at the girl. 

Okay, Danny listened, standing stock-still in the centre of the wide pier with his guide. People on their way moved around them like the sea around an outcropping. The locals acknowledged them with a simple nod, giving the pair their time and space, and the tourists huffed and got out of their way. 

A little toddler, a curly-hair-topped local kid, stopped at the girl’s feet staring up at her, mouth open. A little like Steve, Danny observed with a grin. The boy’s mother patiently let him watch and listen, smiling as he started to bop along with the tune. Danny smiled, at the classic-whatever and jiving at odds with each other. Without losing beat or rhythm or mis-fingering, the girl winked at the little boy, clearly taking pleasure in his enjoyment. 

The girl had some lungs on her. 

A business man strode past, absently tossing a coin into the hat at her feet and sidestepping the kid. 

Danny scanned the crowd, alert for -- everything, basically. Across the way, there was a small café, tables with umbrellas set on the boardwalk. There was a guy with a good quality, hefty, professional-quality video camera on his shoulder taping the crowd. And the focus of the guy’s interest was the flute player, and then the crowd. 

Danny elbowed Steve. 

_What?_ Steve glared, disturbed from the Pied Piper of the Hawaii Boulevard entrancing babies and guides. 

Danny lifted his chin towards the guy with the camera. 

A frisson of energy built, skirting across Steve’s skin. Steve, Danny knew, was going to arrow over there as if fired from a crossbow. 

Steve was, Danny thought ruefully, a little like a Doberman Pinscher.

The cameraman, continuing to operate his camera, gave them a thumbs up. He then pulled a plastic card from his shirt breast pocket. Danny zoomed in his sight onto the identification card: Obasi Kāne, KHON HO -- News. 

“He’s kosher,” Danny murmured, “go back to your fluting, babe.” 

“Are you listening?” Steve clacked his teeth together -- click -- in frustration. 

“What am I listening to?” Danny shrugged, because it was nice and all, but flute music wasn’t really his thing; he preferred Bon Jovi. 

“Don’t zone. Listen to the notes.” 

Danny breathed out, and listened. Shit, they were perfect.

_Oh_.

             ~*~

 

_Damn_. Steve watched Danny drop into a zone like a cat getting into catnip. _Typical_. 

He flicked the tip of Danny’s nose with his fingernail. 

“Ow!” Danny immediately clutched his nose, aggrieved. He blinked furiously. “What did do that for -- Oh.” 

Steve captured Danny’s hand, pulling it off his nose, curled his fingers around the smaller palm, and drew their clasped hands down by their hips. 

“Split your focus. Listen to the Mozart, and--” Steve drew his thumb over the back of Danny’s hand, “--enjoy.” 

His ball of contained lightning finally focussed on what was important. Steve could almost hear the orchestra that should have been playing with the flautist, the quiet spaces where the pianist would have accentuated the soar of the trill and the plummet of a drop. The omissions did not detract from her superlative performance. 

She was good, she was better than good, she was a master. The final bar, a high note, dropping to a mid-note and then a resounding, plaintive low note punched deep in Steve’s belly. 

She paused, and then lowered the flute. 

Steve freed his hand from Danny’s and clapped loudly and rapidly. 

People around them, stopped jerked, realised and added their own claps. Their confusion, and a few cases of enjoyment, buffeted Steve, but he rode the wind. 

She smiled, a little quirk of her lips, and Steve felt her pleasure. It was kind of weird, but Steve knew that his appreciation spawned the kānaka and Kama’āina acknowledgment of her skill, shown by the sudden outflow of cash into the floppy hat at her feet. 

“So what’s the catch? I mean, who is she?” Danny asked, breaking Steve’s concentration. 

“I don’t know who she is,” Steve said, “but I know what she is.”

“Which is?” Danny scowled. She was crouched in front of the toddler, letting him have a closer look at her metal and wood flute. He grinned a wiggly-toothed smile, as he stroked a tentative fingertip along the shiny, metal mouthpiece. 

“A world-class flautist.” 

“Who is busking?” Danny said suspiciously. 

“Maybe she likes performing?” Steve offered. 

“Come on,” Danny caught Steve’s elbow, and Steve let Danny tow him into the lady’s orbit. 

There was a little card beside her hat indicating that any contributions would be donated to the Make-A-Wish-Foundation of Hawaii. His generous Danny was already ruffling through his wallet and extracting a bill. 

“Nice meeting you,” she carolled, waving the toddler off with his mom. The kid hung on the end of his mom’s hand, waving as she led him away. 

“Convert to classical music?” Danny said, as he rose from dropping a twenty onto the coins in the hat. 

“If I have got one, it’s been a good day.” She smiled, showing a raft of teeth. 

British, Steve identified between her accent and the natural, un-veneered, un-capped teeth. 

“That was,” Steve paused a second, and offered, “perfect?” 

“You sound unsure.” She laughed. 

“We’re,” Danny butted in, “trying to figure out why someone as good as you is playing on the sidewalk?” 

“Partly for charity.” She pointed the flute at the hat. “Partly for that one kid that will hear something that he might not normally hear, and partly for the news-interview-camera thing happening over there.” 

They both turned and looked to the cameraman, who was packing up. 

“So you’re famous?” Danny asked. 

“Well,” she weighed her words, observing Steve, “if you like classical music.”

“Sorry,” Steve said, leaning forward and offering his hand, “I’m Steve McGarrett and this is my partner, Danny Williams.” 

“Niamh Hardcastle.” She had a firm grip, just the kind that Steve liked. 

“Nice to meet you, Niamh,” Danny said, “Where are you from, Scotland?”

“Yep, Glasgow, originally.” 

“So you’re on tour?” Steve asked. 

“With the Hawaii Symphony Orchestra for a few nights, before heading out to Japan. Uhm.” She crouched and carefully laid the flute across the open flute case, balancing it on velvet cushioning. Steve didn’t offer to hold the flute, guessing that it was very valuable. Tucked in the side of the case was an envelope. Plucking out a couple of tickets, she straightened. “Here.” 

“We couldn’t,” Steve said automatically, eying the tickets, ‘cause he kind of wanted to go. 

“No, you can. I get given tickets for family and friends. My family and friends are on a different continent.” She smiled, and essayed a shrug. “So I like to give them out to people who will appreciate getting to go to a concert that they might not normally go to. I’m guessing that you don’t normally go to concerts? They’re for tonight.” 

“Say thank you to the nice lady, Steve,” Danny coached. 

Steve knew that Danny’s smile was the manufactured variety, but hopefully Ms. Hardcastle would think that it was genuine. 

“Thank you,” Steve said, gripping the tickets. 

“So date, Babe?” Danny said. “How do you feel about Italian at Monteverdi’s first?”

The unspoken undercurrent, and Steve didn’t need to be a guide to recognise it, was _if we have to go to a classical concert, you’d better feed me damn good food first_. Also, and it was fun to see, Danny was unequivocally, stating his claim before the flautist. 

_Mine._

“Excellent. I hope you enjoy it. Whoops.” She squatted and started to dismantle her flute. “You’ll have to excuse me. I really have to go and be interviewed by a Ms. Joachin?” 

“Yep, local reporter. Nice lady,” Danny said. 

“It was a pleasure listening to you,” Steve blurted, “it brought back a lot of memories. I-- I’m looking forward to tonight.” 

“I’m glad.” She paused in her packing up and grinned. “I’m glad that I could get to play out here this morning. I hope you really enjoy the concert.”

Danny jumped a second before his cell phone chimed _Brrrrrrrring_. It didn’t matter what setting they put it on, the incoming signal always took him by surprise, let alone whatever tone they selected. Danny hauled his cell out of his back pocket. 

“Geez, we’re missing our appointment with the governor, Babe,” Danny announced.

“Sorry. We have to go. Come on, Danny.” Jerking his head in their direction of travel, Steve began moving.

“I was the one that told him.” Danny rolled his eyes, sharing his exasperation with Niamh. 

“You better run,” she advised. 

“Come on, Danny.” Steve bobbed from foot to foot. They were late. 

“I’m coming!” 

             ~*~

“Nice suit.” Danny observed, rocking to one side to observe Steve’s reflection in the mirror. “Different than your usual get up.”

“I’m hardly going to go to the Hawaiian Symphony Orchestra in cargo pants and t-shirt,” Steve said. Chin up, he resituated the Winsor knot at his throat, and checked the alignment. 

“You go practically everywhere else on the planet in cargo pants.” 

“You’re wearing a suit,” Steve pointed out. 

“That’s because I have style, and I know what is appropriate to wear for the appropriate circumstances.” 

“As do I,” Steve said, primly. “And as _Boss_ I say cargo pants are appropriate for a day at the office, and a suit for a night at the Symphony.”

“ _Oooooooooooooo_ ,” Danny mocked, and palmed the nice firm ass under the pearl grey pants. 

“Stop it.” Steve twisted, pivoting around like a serpent, and mashed a kiss on the corner of Danny’s mouth. “We have to get going.” 

“We could miss dinner,” Danny offered, lips trailing up the hinge of Steve’s jaw, going to that spot under Steve’s ear that made him shiver. 

Steve slid a hand under Danny’s suit jacket. The warm, large hand splayed against Danny’s back and pulled him in close. 

“I’m game, but… you won’t be eating until after eleven.” Steve ruffled his nose through Danny’s hair inhaling, and mussing up the fine strands. 

“Pest.” Danny pulled back as his stomach growled loudly. 

Steve grinned. 

“And what have you eaten today?” Danny continued, because they had separated after meeting Denning, and had only caught up back at the office before heading home to get ready for the concert. 

Appallingly, Steve shrugged. 

“Sentinels are the ones who are supposed to have agida,” Danny said. 

“Agida?” Steve echoed. 

“You know what I mean: sensitive stomach. We need food. Come on.” Danny pivoted on one heel, striding out of their bedroom. “We can have sex when we come home.” 

“Awesome.” Steve bounded after him. 

             ~*~

The music was interesting and all, but Danny knew -- albeit he really didn’t care -- that it was going over his head. He sagged a little deeper into the plush velvet seat and interlaced his fingers over his post-dinner potbelly. He had opted for beef lasagne in a rich red wine sauce and a garlic bread as big as his head. Even more impressively, Steve had picked up the cheque. It was, of course, only the principle of the thing, since they had a shared bank account, but for Steve it was a gesture. 

Sitting taut in his seat, the object of Danny’s affections was intent on the performance. 

Steve liked classical music and he especially liked the flute. Normally, when they were in the car, Steve deliberately chose to listen to the tackiest 70s and 80s music he could find to tease Danny. All in all, recognising and enjoying classical music kind of detracted from the image that Danny had in his head of his best friend, but the world was a complicated place. 

“Things I do for love,” Danny grumbled.

             ~*~

The audience clapped enthusiastically, startling Danny awake. A forest of bodies stood around him, applauding the performance. Standing, he automatically dialled down his hearing and started clapping, because he was sure, based on the volume, that it had been good. His frame of reference was _aaaaaaaaaaaaaa._

Steve rocked over and pushed his shoulder into Danny’s, grinning widely. 

Niamh bowed and exited the stage-left. Danny waited for her to return, but peculiarly, there wasn’t an encore. A moment of silence was followed by the orchestra starting to pack up their instruments. 

“So is that it?” Danny asked looking around. 

“Well, I think that it would be _appropriate_ \--” Steve flashed a cheesy grin at Danny, “--to thank Ms. Hardcastle.” 

Danny was down with that, he had a couple of questions that he figured that Niamh could answer. 

They shuffled along the narrow space between the ranks of chairs towards the main aisle. Their seats were on the main floor, in the second row back, opposite the centre of the stage. They were about as perfect as seats could be, unless you wanted to sneak out to procure a glass of Merlot. 

Danny planned to use his 50 badge to get access to the back of the theatre and see if they could thank Ms. Hardcastle. The usher was directing them towards the south side curtained exit. 

“Hey.” Danny made a move away from the usher towards the main throng, intending to circle around to the stage door. 

“Wait a mo’, D,” Steve said. 

“What?” 

“Tickets said: guest.” Steve held their tickets. “I figure the main floor mezzanine guests are invited to an after-party soirée.”

“You what?” 

“After-performance party in the evening for the important guests.” Steve grinned cheesily. 

“We’re important?” Danny mock preened. 

“You knew that already.” Steve poked him in his ribs. 

“Arrogant dickwad,” Danny riposted. “We’re public servants. We’re part of the machine that keeps the jackals and hyenas under control. We’re not special.” 

“I’m never quite sure of your analogies,” Steve observed, pursing his lips, and they were siphoned away from the main crowd and directed towards a pair of open double doors. “You are one in a billion.” 

“Sentinel Shmenitnel. I’m a cop first.”

“Sentinel of Hawaii,” Steve demurred.

“Guide of Hawaii.”

“That doesn’t sound as impressive,” Steve mused. 

“You’re the only Guide of Hawaii.” Danny pushed Steve through the open doors with a hand on the small of his back. 

“I don’t think that’s accurate _per se_ \--”

“ _Per se_?”

“There are other empaths.”

“Yeah?” Danny stopped, because that was contrary to Normals’ perceptions. Steve hadn’t made any mention of encountering guides on the Islands. 

“They’re like sentinels; it’s not always the five sense gig.” Steve feathered his fingers at his temple. “Sometimes it’s about sensitivity. A lot of the nurses ping my radar. Kids -- but they lose it when they get older.”

“Hey.” Danny rested his hand on Steve’s arm. 

“It’s okay.” Steve shrugged, effectively moving Danny’s hand. 

The ante-chamber through the double doors was an open space with large floor to ceiling windows on the far wall overlooking downtown Waikiki. Guests milled with intent towards the hovering waiters and waitresses holding trays of long stemmed champagne glasses and hors d'oeuvres. 

“Champagne?” Steve observed. “I’ll go find out exactly what they’ve got available.” 

Mission declared -- distraction sought and identified, Danny let him go and accost a member of staff. It was likely a cheap knock-off Champagne, adulterated and loaded with sulphites that he couldn’t drink, but it would be good to know. 

Lots of guides, he mused, although, in fairness, Steve hadn’t said lots of guides, he had identified _sensitive_ people. How he had identified people, he hadn’t really said, but getting Steve to talk about the guide aspect of their partnership was difficult. Partly because he didn’t know, and mostly because he made it up as he went along. 

“Ah, Sentinel Williams,” a pompous voice interrupted loudly, ensuring that all the attention in the vicinity was drawn towards them both. 

“Mr. Powell,” Danny returned, eying Powell’s fuzzy-grey caterpillar moustache in case it managed to jump off his top lip. The champagne better be good, because he was going to need more than one glass. 

“I didn’t know that you were an aficionado.” Powell gestured expansively at the suite, encompassing the opera hall beyond the double doors. 

“I’m not,” Danny said solidly, “Lieutenant Commander McGarrett wanted to come--”

“Oh, your guide,” Powell drawled through all the vowels, “well, yes, of course, it stands to reason that a guide would adore classical music performed by a virtuosa.”

“I’m not entirely sure that computes,” Danny matched Powell’s tones, “because he’s more likely to watch football.” 

“Single malt.” Steve inserted himself into the conversation, pushing a crystal tumbler with a thumbnail of amber liquor into Danny’s hand. 

“Champagne not champagne?” Danny summarised. The aroma was smooth and honeyed as Danny swirled the whisky around the bottom of the glass. 

“Californian Sparkling wine. Tastes okay--” Steve sipped from his own fluted glass, “--but it’s not labelled as ‘sentinel friendly’. You’ve got an Aberlour Speyside Malt.” 

Danny pouted; he liked champagne. A good whisky was a thing of pleasure, but he had got his head wrapped around partaking in a glass of fizz. 

“Surely we can get you a, what did you call it, ‘sentinel friendly’ champagne?” Powell bristled. “Waiter, waiter! Champagne for the Sentinel of Hawaii ‘sentinel friendly’!” 

Danny palmed his face as Powell went off to berate the staff. It was pointless trying to stop the man. 

“Strange guy.” Steve watched him go over the rim of his glass. 

“Sentinel,” a lightly accented Scottish voice interrupted them, “of Hawaii?”

“Oh, hi, Ms. Hardcastle.” Danny turned a fraction and greeted the young woman. 

“Niamh,” she corrected. “I didn’t realise that -- Sentinel?” 

“Yeah,” Danny shrugged _so what_.

“Don’t you normally have a like a badge on your collar?” Her hands went to her mouth. “Sentinel. I hope it sounded okay. Oh, my God, you zoned when I was busking. I didn’t hit a bad note, did I?” 

“Hey. Hey. Hey.” Danny grabbed her hand because it looked like she was going to chew her nails off. Gently, he squeezed her fingers and released her hand. “No, you didn’t hit a bad note. It was so good I zoned.” 

“No. Oh!” Her degree of consternation was _almost_ funny. 

“Play badly in future,” Danny joked. 

“Really?” Niamh seem to seriously consider it. 

“Danny, leave it be.” Steve elbowed him. “He’s teasing, Ms. Hardcastle.” 

“Sorry. Sorry. I’m as high as a kite after performing. It’s just I know that bum notes can destroy your will to live.” Her distress was palpable in the flush across her cheeks. “My first teacher when I was just starting to take playing seriously had sentinel-level hearing. I made him cry once.” 

Her embarrassed flush matched the colour of her dusky rose ball gown. 

“My sister got my daughter a recorder for Christmas when she was five. Funnily enough--” Danny grinned toothily “--it was my sister that cried the most, eventually.” 

“It was a superlative performance, Niamh.” Steve elbowed Danny again, harder. “Thank you for inviting us.” 

“I….” she was still hung up on the Sentinel thing. 

Clearly, Danny realised, the joking wasn’t working, and he didn’t need Steve to start stamping on his toes to drive that home. 

“Look, kiddo, the sentinel and guide thing is only one part of us,” Danny began. “Yeah, a shrill, off-pitch note can hurt, but when was the last time you played an off-pitch note? And in all honesty, I might be a sentinel but I don’t know anything about your music. I’m not that attuned. I’m not going to be offended or disturbed by any mistakes. Yeah, maybe, if I had stuck with the violin, but I didn’t.” 

“You played a musical instrument?” Steve pounced, intent. 

“No, not really, took classes for about a year when I was eight. It wasn’t my thing. Baseball, however.” Danny waited for Steve to chime in, but he didn’t. 

“I bet,” Niamh mused, “if you had loved music you would have been the next Paganini.”

“Pah,” Steve mocked, “Mischa Elman.” 

Niamh laughed out loud, hand once again going to her mouth. 

“What? What’s the joke,” Danny demanded over acting his ire, because he knew that it was at his expense. 

“Short guy.” Steve mapped a height just over five foot with the flat of his hand. 

“I am not that short, you giant giraffe.” Danny batted him on principle. “I’m not defined by being a sentinel. I’m not that good at baseball, the hand-eye coordination is there, but I was not major league player material.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve start to pursue a thought but he stopped. Steve knew that Danny’s blown out knee had ended a -- potential -- baseball career. 

“I’ve got champagne!” Powell sailed back into their orbit with a fat bottomed gold and green champagne bottle and an array of very fine crystal glasses on a tray. “Louis Roederer, don’t you know.”

Danny knew that he was a philistine; he just had to trust that Powell had got a very nice bottle of Champagne. 

“Louis Roederer? Roederer, yeah, that one is okay, I think?” Steve leaned forwards, and, helpfully, Powell angled the tray around so that Steve could see the bottle’s label. “Sentinel friendly.” 

Danny figured that they were leaving the Camaro in the parking lot and getting a cab home. 

             ~*~

Danny was merry and a little drunk as they finally managed to get through the strangely narrow front doorway, arm in arm. 

“I want you to play my flute,” Danny giggled. 

“Wave to the nice taxi driver.” Steve prompted, waving at the cabbie. 

Danny spooned under Steve’s lanky hold and waggled his fingers at the driver, a relative of Kamekona’s by some complicated circumstance. The guy beeped the horn and drove off. Danny could clearly hear the man’s laughter. Steve kicked the front door shut on the scene.

“So where is your flute?” Danny asked, doggedly getting back to the topic at hand, albeit in a roundabout sort of way. 

“Down my pants?” Steve offered, cocking an eyebrow. 

“No, no, not that one,” Danny said, palming said flute. Euphemisms for the win. “The one that you used to play.” 

Steve froze, hard, and not in the fun way. 

“Babe?” Danny asked, turning in the circle of Steve’s arms. He blew out a noisy raspberry, finding a modicum of soberness after a couple or so of glasses of Champagne. “It’s not rocket science. You used to play the flute, and you were probably good at it. So you probably have one lying around this museum.” 

“I don’t know what you have against the décor,” Steve said, scanning the front room and all its leather glory, ships in glass cases, and the awful Ming vase on the stairs that was the icing on the cake. “It’s about history.” 

“Stop changing the subject.” Danny was a dad; he was a star at recognising avoidance. “So what’s the story? Quarterbacks couldn’t like classical music?” 

Steve’s bottom lip turned down. 

“Ah,” Danny realised. “Sort of, but not quite accurate. More like someone who didn’t want to be identified as a _sensitive_ guide stopped doing something that they loved that was perceived as, I dunno, girlie.” 

“Ha, Ha, Mr. F-Ducking Psychiatrist,” Steve said nastily, and Danny knew that he was right. Steve pulled his arm off Danny’s shoulders in a nascent attempt to escape.

“Hey, I get it.” Danny latched on like a limpet, curling his hands around Steve’s waist. “I get it. I get it.” 

“What do you get, Danny?” Steve stayed in his hold. 

“You didn’t want to be identified as a guide,” Danny said. “Pigeonholed into a role. You didn’t want to be taken away from your family and friends. You didn’t want to be transported to ‘Aina. And you didn’t want all your dreams decided for you.” 

Steve looked away, chin high. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Babe?” Danny persisted. “I’m right, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah. It wasn’t that hard a decision,” Steve finally said, lying. “It was logical. I had enough on my plate without also doing music. I liked football. I liked learning car mechanics. I was in student government. Chemistry was great. Physics was challenging and exciting. I had enough extracurricular activities on my card that it wasn’t going to affect my college applications.” 

“It doesn’t make it right that you had to stop playing.” Danny said, in the face of that firm, square jaw that was screaming _pain_.

“Mrs. Corden, my flute teacher, said that I was unusually perceptive and had an absolute gift for sharing the emotions of a piece for my age.” Steve slid a sideways glance at Danny. “More than a couple of guys in the team thought that my flute playing was weird. Mrs. Corden was making noises about college. I was working on my eighth grade ABSRM flute exam. And I was enjoying it.” 

Steve’s eyes were bright in a way that Danny never liked to see. Damn the heavy handed control that Sentinel Central imposed over the people that they were supposed to protect and nurture. Fear was a brainless ruler. 

“For the time, Steve, it was the best decision that you could make.” Danny huffed, ruefully, because it sucked snail snot. “I don’t know if playing a musical instrument was a risk. Oh, damn it…. You playing the flute must have stuck out like a sore thumb.” 

“It’s not a guy thing.” Steve ground his teeth.

“You know, people suck,” Danny said succinctly. 

Not being identified was more important. But… 

“You know, you are now, a known guide,” Danny said leadingly. 

Steve rolled his eyes, because everyone in Hawaii knew that he was a guide, and no doubt they had a hefty Sentinel Central file on the US mainland. 

“You could take it up again.” Danny shrugged.

“I’m not any good anymore,” Steve said automatically. 

“You practice?” Danny pounced, because he kind of liked the thought of that. But he had never heard a flute in the house, and he was a Sentinel. And -- _heh heh heh_ \-- that meant that Steve did have a flute secreted away. 

“No. I’ve picked it up a couple of times. I’ve lost my embouchure and my breath control is abysmal.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.” Danny waggled both eyebrows. 

“Danny.” A smile finally gracing his face, Steve poked him in the ribs. “Behave.” 

Still in the circle of Steve’s hold, Danny stretched up on his toes and planted a kiss on his love’s forehead. Bending, Steve let it happen, the smile turning half-rueful. _Enough_ , Danny thought, _enough emotions_ ; Steve felt them very hard, but handled them so very badly. 

“Come on.” Danny ran a caress across Steve’s ribs, and slid away towards the staircase. Fingers dabbling along Steve’s arm, he walked away until his fingers brushed Steve’s palm. Warm long fingers gripped Danny’s hand, and Steve followed as if tethered to a lead.

“Are we going to have sex now?” Steve bounced just a little bit. 

“Yeah.” Danny skipped up the stairs. “I would like to see your flute first, though.” 

“We’re not doing anything weird with it.” 

“What?” Danny froze and Steve shuffled up tight against him. 

“You know.” Steve made a circle with his thumb and right forefinger.

“Pervert.” 

“Okay, only appropriately manufactured toys.” Steve pushed Danny’s ass forcing him up the stairs. 

Steve crowded in tight behind him, keeping them walking almost skin to skin. They semi-danced into their bedroom. Somehow, magically, Steve had shed his jacket, and his tie was half askew. 

“Flute. Flute. Flute,” Danny said, sing-song. 

“Why?” Steve stole a quick kiss. 

“I just want to.” 

“Okay.” Steve sighed dramatically. Pulling his white shirt over his head and tossing it into the corner laundry basket, Steve made his way over to the built-in wardrobe. 

Danny handily used the time to strip off his pants, and wriggle out of his boxers. 

Tucked in the bottom left hand corner of the wardrobe, along with neat boxes of dress shoes (Geez, Steve was organised) was a narrow, black, rectangular box about two feet long. Steve extracted it. There was a thin layer of dust marring the surface. Steve drew the edge of the case across the fabric over his thigh, before juggling the case in his hands. 

“The romance is dead,” Steve noted, regarding Danny _sans_ pants and boxers standing in his half unbuttoned shirt beside their bed. 

“The romance is alive and well and fully capable of standing up to anything that you throw at it.” Danny stood on the toe of one sock and pulled his foot free. His cock bobbed emphasising his words. 

“Voila. Flute.” Steve popped the catches on the case. The silver flute was separated into three pieces, cradled in blue velvet indentations. 

“Go on then,” Danny urged, as he pulled off his shirt. 

“You’ve still got one co-sock on.” 

“And?” Danny fell back onto their bed. He lay back on the pillows, and folded his hands behind his head. His single polka dot red and green sock added a certain _je ne se quois_. “Naked, please.”

“Since you asked so politely.” One handed, Steve undid his belt and let his pants fall straight off his almost non-existent hips. The reprobate had gone commando to the symphony. 

Steve fitted the mouthpiece into the main body of the flute. His giant hands dwarfed the bottom piece. Standing tall, he lifted the flute to his lips. 

“It’s not going to be very good.” 

“Excuses. Excuses.” Danny waved a hand. The view was outstanding. 

Steve played. Danny had no idea what the tune was. It was a simple piece --some kind of Scottish ditty, with lots of jaunty repetition, that made Danny’s sock covered foot beat to the tune. It was breathy and Steve flubbed a couple of notes. But he stood tall, and breathed evenly, and he _loved_ playing. Steve finished with an altogether inappropriate trill and then bowed extravagantly. 

“Bravo!” Danny clapped enthusiastically. 

“Philistine.” Smiling, Steve set the flute on top of the dresser. “It was awful. I’m seriously out of practice.” 

“Come on.” Danny opened his arms as Steve clambered on the edge of the bed. Danny wanted his Steve-Blanket. 

Deliberately, Steve crawled over the mattress. Danny pulled him down, and Steve snugged in tight. Danny curled his arms around Steve’s shoulders and nuzzled at Steve’s ear. 

“What?” Steve asked. 

“I really liked listening to you play. And you really liked it.” 

“And?” Steve wriggled interestingly. 

“You do realise that for your birthday next week, I’m going to find you a teacher and book you some lessons.” 

Steve pushed off so he could look Danny straight in the eye. 

“Really? I am totally surprised!” Steve said. “You’re not going to let something lie and not try and make it better? There’s a reason why I love you.” 

And with that declaration, he bent down and kissed Danny soundly. 

_fini_


End file.
